


Whumptober 2020

by Enigma_TM



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aramis Angst, Aramis Whump, Aramis needs a hug, Athos Whump, Baby Louis, Caretaker Aramis, Caretaker Athos, Caretaker Porthos, Caring Aramis, Caring Porthos, Comfort/Angst, Crying, Cuddles, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dad Aramis, Daddy Aramis, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hugging, Hugs, Hurt, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Louis XIV - Freeform, Papa Aramis, Platonic Cuddling, Porthos Whump, Protective Aramis, Sick Aramis, Sickfic, Sickness, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, angst with comfort, caring Athos, d'Artagnan Whump, the dauphin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigma_TM/pseuds/Enigma_TM
Summary: Collection of one-shots in response to the Whumptober 2020 prompts. Relevant trigger warnings at the start of each chapter.Day 1: Shackled (Athos)Day 2: Kidnapped (d'Artagnan)Day 3: Manhandled (Aramis)Day 4: Running Out of Time (Porthos)Day 5: On the Run (Aramis)Day 6: "Get it Out" (Aramis)Day 7: Support/Carrying (Porthos)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 93
Collections: The Musketeers Whump Collection, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020





	1. Day 1: Shackled (Athos)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, against my better judgement, I am participating in Whumptober this year. Don't let the initial few chapters fool you, I have outlined most of the prompts and it's Aramis and Porthos who bear the brunt of the whump. The chapters will also get longer, I promise.
> 
> Shout-out to venea_taur for proofreading this piece. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> WARNINGS: Blood, torture

Breathing hurt. So did standing. Sitting was out of the question.

Athos grunted as he tried to adjust into a more comfortable position (comfortable being a relative term); one that did not involve bleeding from his wrists or ankles.

The Musketeer had gathered early into his capture that these were no common thugs. The questions were specific. The specialised torture equipment was another clue. There had to be at least one professional involved in this group.

The smatterings of fist-sized bruises on his stomach throbbed angrily. It did not help that his arms were restrained above his shoulders and he was also forced to keep his legs wide apart.

Maybe if he shifted just a bit to the left...

He immediately regretted his mistake.

At least half a dozen of the tiny spikes pricked into the barely congealed wound of his left ankle. Athos hissed, overcorrecting to his right and getting rewarded with a spike skewering itself into the flesh of his wrist. He bit on his tongue to choke down a scream.

Carefully, very carefully, he manoeuvred his hand, twisting, wriggling, shifting, until the sharp metal tip dislodged from his flesh, leaving a blood-drenched hole in its wake.

He did not dare move a muscle after that blunder.

Damn these men. Damn them for ringing the cuffs of these shackles with spikes on the inside.

Minutes drowned into hours. Time was difficult to keep track of when the only thing you could stare at was... nothing.

At least the darkness was a familiar companion.

There was the click of a lock and he heard the door creak. Athos tentatively hoped to see a figure he would intimately recognise but the silhouette that appeared was unfamiliar.

"You ready to talk yet?"

Athos clenched his jaw even though he was sure the man could not detect the action in the dark.

His captor shrugged when greeted with silence. The indifference in the gesture was unnerving. "Suit yourself."

Athos watched as the shadow moved out of his field of vision. A few moments later, he heard the door shut with a resounding finality and the lock click close.

It was going to be a long wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in the Day 23 prompt "Exhaustion and Sleep Deprivation."
> 
> Review please!


	2. Day 2: Kidnapped (d'Artagnan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He struggled in vain to try and push off the person straddling on his back. He opened his mouth to scream as his arms were twisted behind painfully but a heavy, calloused hand clamped over lips, muffling the noise._
> 
> _In a final, desperate move, d'Artagnan bit down on the hand. Hard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to venea_taur for proofreading this piece. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Warnings: None

"Oi, those fruits cost me money! Watch where you're going, fool!"

"Pardon me, Monsieur," d'Artagnan threw the apology at the cart-driver, barely relaxing his stride. The man muttered and cursed as he scrambled to pick up his fallen goods. D'Artagnan felt genuine remorse for letting his carelessness spoil a stranger's day, but the feeling passed quickly as the inevitability of earning a glorious scolding from Treville loomed large in his mind.

He should have known that challenging Athos to a drinking contest could only ever have one outcome. Was a 20 livres bet, that he did not even win, really worth the mother of all hangovers, his commanding officer's rebuke and a week about to be spent shoveling horse crap? Seriously, what was he thinking?

Right, he was not.

Damn Aramis and Porthos for goading him right into their trap.

As d'Artagnan was meticulously formulating three different schemes to extract his vengeance, a scream pierced through the commotion of the marketplace.

He pulled up short and scanned the crowds to search for the source of the distress. The Gascon immediately spotted a lady in the distance, struggling to keep her grip on a bag that a man was trying to snatch.

"Hey! Leave her alone!" d'Artagnan shouted as he rushed towards the duo.

The thief looked up in alarm and then with a forceful yank, he seized the bag and bolted off just as d'Artagnan hurried to the woman's side.

"The thief! Catch him! He's getting away," she screeched wildly.

The lad did not need to be told twice as he took off after the robber. It was difficult to keep track of the scrawny figure among the swathes of people. The Gascon bumped into more people than he cared to count.

He yelled at the thief to stop as he steadily closed the distance between them. The man veered off to his left, disappearing behind the numerous stalls lining the sides of the street.

D'Artagnan followed his trail and saw the thief slipping inside a narrow alleyway. He entered the passage, only to find it empty and his target nowhere in sight.

D'Artagnan stood there, confused. There was no way the man could have covered the alley that fast. He must have entered one of the buildings lining the alley.

He was about to knock on one of the doors when a heavy weight slammed him from behind and he was roughly tackled to the ground. D'Artagnan fell face first on the ground, seeing fleeting stars as his head took a hard hit.

He struggled in vain to try and push off the person straddling on his back. He opened his mouth to scream as his arms were twisted behind painfully but a heavy, calloused hand clamped over lips, muffling the noise.

In a final, desperate move, d'Artagnan bit down on the hand. Hard.

His attacker screamed in pain and slackened his grip. D'Artagnan flipped on his side, causing the man to lose his balance and relinquish his position from the Gascon's back.

Turning on his back, d'Artagnan threw a solid kick at his assailant's chest. The man reeled back from the force.

His moment of victory was short-lived. A heavy, blunt object landed in between his shoulder making him stagger several steps forward, right where his first assailant, now recovered from his blow, stood. The man drove a large fist in his gut, causing d'Artagnan to double up in pain. Another fist landed on his cheek and the Gascon found himself back on the ground.

"What are you waiting for? Finish this!"

D'Artagnan felt the hard, blunt object landing again, this time on his head and then he knew nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in the Day 26 prompt "Concussion".


	3. Day 3: Manhandled (Aramis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aramis started struggling again as soon as he laid him on the bed. The big man easily restrained him with a single hand placed on his chest._
> 
> _"Lie still or I'll sit on you if I have to."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long I will be able to keep up with these regular updates as my finished reserves extend only up to Day 5 after which I have only two more WIPs. Enjoy it while it lasts!
> 
> WARNINGS: None.

"Morning," Porthos cheerfully greeted as Aramis plopped himself down on the bench opposite to him. Athos silently shoved a plate of breakfast towards their newcomer.

"Mhm, morning," Aramis greeted back, his voice somewhat grating.

Porthos frowned. Athos must have noticed as well how odd Aramis sounded. He turned sideways to face the marksman. "What happened to your throat?"

"What of my throat?" Aramis asked casually. Too casually. Which somehow made his voice grate even more.

Porthos shrugged. "Dunno, you just sound funny."

"A lot of people find me funny. It's hardly anything new," Aramis said, spooning through his plate with a resolution and thereby, managing to escape making any eye contact.

Athos gave him a critical appraisal. "Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I?" their brother replied before taking a bite off his bread. A very tiny bite.

Athos shot an exasperated glance at Porthos.

Aramis reached for the glass of water and lifted it for a drink, only to be interrupted by a violent sneeze, spilling the contents of the glass all over his doublet and trousers.

"Bloody hell," the marksman cursed, sniffling.

"You have a cold, 'Mis."

"No, of course I don't." Aramis glared at Porthos. "It was... something was tickling my nose."

"Right." Porthos nodded. He and Athos shared another glance before the swordsman's lips curled up into a smirk.

"Fine then, since we have the day to ourselves, I would like to spar a bit," Athos declared, rising up. "Aramis, care to join me?"

The look of alarm that crossed Aramis' face reminded Porthos of a spooked horse. "What?"

Athos raised a single eyebrow. "I am sure the two of us could use some exercise."

"Bu...but," Aramis spluttered, desperately reaching out for words. "But Porthos-"

"Can join us after this," Athos cut in. "Come, I want to have the first round with you."

"We can practice shooting?" Aramis tried meekly for one last time. Porthos was struggling to contain the laughter threatening to bubble out of his throat.

"We'll have a round of shooting after we have stretched our muscles a bit. Unless you are not feeling fit enough-"

"No, no, of course, I'm fit, I'm fine." His shoulders slumped, Aramis got up and headed towards the courtyard. Now that he was looking for it, Porthos noticed the sluggishness in his brother's usually graceful movements. His legs seemed like they were being pulled down by some invisible force.

His gaze flitted to Athos. The swordsman caught his eye and gave him a subtle nod. None of it had escaped his attention.

The two men faced each other, their swords drawn and poised for action.

Athos made the first move, forcing Aramis to get immediately on the defense. It was clear from the beginning that the marksman's parries and ripostes lacked their usual elegance.

Athos was not going all out with his attacks either. Porthos could see that. Nevertheless, his strikes were unrelenting enough that Aramis was quickly beginning to tire. He was panting heavily and his face had a greasy shine to it, thanks to all the sweat.

Porthos expected the man to collapse from the sheer exhaustion but instead, Aramis tripped.

Like a clumsy green cadet, he tripped.

"Ow."

The marksman appeared rather content to lay on his back and made the absolute minimal effort to lift himself up from his ignominy.

Athos loomed over his fallen opponent, regarding him with what Porthos interpreted as mild amusement.

"Are you going to help me up or just stand there and entertain yourself with my humiliation?"

Porthos could not help it anymore. Before he knew it, a booming laughter had made its way out of his throat.

Aramis rolled his head, the only movement he was apparently capable of, and threw him a baleful look.

"I am just-" Porthos wheezed, clutching his belly- "I am just...you brought this on yourself, you know? You stubborn little bugger, just admit it you're ill."

Aramis glared. "Am not ill."

"Is that so? Then you can find your own way up." Athos motioned with his rapier. "Come on, up you get then."

Aramis flailed his limbs, in what appeared to be an attempt to roll over. His actions managed to achieve precisely nothing and he threw his head back with a defeated groan.

"Please," he whined. "A little help."

Athos finally took pity on him, deciding to put him out of his misery. With a sigh, he extended his hand that Aramis grabbed eagerly.

"Dear God," Athos exclaimed as he pulled the man to his feet. "You're burning."

He reached for the sharpshooter's neck and winced when his fingers touched the flushed skin.

"That's enough training for today. Go to your room, I'll fetch the physician."

"I am not ill," Aramis protested peevishly. "And what are you, my father?"

"Then stop acting like you are five."

"I. Am. Not. Going. Anywhere."

Athos sighed before shooting a side-glance at Porthos. "I would say this calls for drastic measures now."

A wicked grin spread across Porthos' face. Aramis' wary eyes darted between the two men.

Porthos rose and headed straight for Aramis.

"Wh...what...ugh, Por-"

His words were cut short with a yelp as the big man picked him up, one arm under his legs and the other supporting his back. Aramis squirmed and whimpered but Porthos' grip was secure.

"Put me down!"

"Only after we get you to your room."

"Porthos, please, people are watching!"

"Hmm, should've thought of that before venturing out of your bed while you were sick, you dimwit," Porthos chided. "Now be still or I'll drop you."

The pair of fever bright eyes widened in alarm. "You wouldn't."

"Then don't try me."

The threat worked. Aramis was quiet as a kitten as Porthos crossed the courtyard, walked up the stairs and reached the man's quarters without a fuss. Athos, who was following close behind, held the door open for him as he entered and headed straight for the bed.

Aramis started struggling again as soon as Porthos laid him on the bed. The big man easily restrained him with a single hand placed on his chest.

"Lie still or I'll sit on you if I have to." Porthos' tone brooked no argument. Aramis scowled and grumbled but gave in to his brother's ministrations.

"If you have everything under control here?" Athos asked from the door.

"Yeah, we're all good here," Porthos said over his shoulder. Aramis huffed.

"I am sending for the physician then."

Porthos hummed his agreement as Athos' footsteps retreated. He could feel the heat in Aramis' body even through the layers of clothing.

The larger Musketeer shook his head and set about to relieve his brother of his stuffy outfits. Now that he had stopped in his protests, Aramis was practically boneless.

Porthos began with the boots, lifting each leg and pulling out the footwear. He then worked on unbuttoning the doublet. Once divested of his heavy jacket, Aramis whimpered as the cool air hit his clammy skin.

"Just hold on for a bit," Porthos said as he pulled down the trousers, leaving his friend in just a loose shirt and his braies.

Aramis shivered. "C...cold."

"Yeah, right," the big man muttered as he scanned the room and spotted a blanket by the fireplace. He quickly retrieved the blanket and tucked it carefully around the sick man.

Aramis appeared to settle more easily after that.

Porthos was still worried about his steadily rising temperature. He filled a bowl with fresh water and picked his friend's handkerchief from the bedstand.

Settling himself on the edge of the bed, he rinsed the handkerchief in the water and placed it on Aramis' forehead. The marksman winced as the soaked fabric came in contact with his heated skin. Porthos removed the cloth after a minute and repeated the process several times.

Aramis was growing restless, fidgeting more and more. He rolled his head and threw his arms out of the blanket, as if he was seeking for something.

Porthos set aside his things and slipped his hands under the other man's armpits, gently tugging his friend until Aramis' head was comfortably resting on his lap. He resettled the blanket around his brother and then busied himself with brushing aside the damp curls on his forehead.

Aramis gave a content sigh. Porthos smiled.

"Porthos?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for putting up with my idiocies. And Athos too, tell him I thank him too."

Porthos chuckled. "Yeah, you're our penance."

A bleary eye shot open.

"Am I going to regret my feverish ramblings?"

"Oh, you bet you will."

Aramis groaned but this time, it had nothing to do with the fever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toss a review to your author, O fandom of plenty :D


	4. Day 4: Running Out of Time (Porthos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Frustrated, Porthos cursed his luck and kicked a nearby stone._
> 
> _It landed with a splash._
> 
> _The Musketeer frowned. He stepped forward and found the stone sploshing on a little puddle._
> 
> _A rapidly growing puddle. The water appeared to be steadily moving, as it would in a stream. His confusion growing, Porthos followed the muddy trail before pulling up short at the chilling sight in front of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the engineering experts reading this, please forgive this poor author who just wanted to get this prompt done.
> 
> WARNINGS: Drowning.

The Musketeers turned the corner just in time to watch their target slip inside a sewer.

"What the hell?" d'Artagnan gawked.

Athos sprinted forward and pulled up the lid. The others came up behind him and peered into the hole.

A series of steps led down into the darkness. Catacombs.

Porthos huffed. "Right. Of all the bloody places in Paris!"

"Wait here," Athos commanded before running off to the nearest building. An inn by the looks of it. He disappeared inside and returned a few minutes later with a burning lantern in his hand.

"See, I told you he can switch on that aristocratic charm of his if he tries hard enough," Aramis told d'Artagnan in a conspiratorial voice. The lad chuckled.

"Gentlemen, if we are done here? We have a job to do."

"After you, lieutenant." Aramis dramatically motioned with his hands.

They entered the catacomb in a single file with Athos leading the way. The light he held managed to illuminate no more than a couple of feet in the pitch darkness.

The four men soon came to a stop. The path in front of them forked into several corridors.

"Oh this just gets better and better," Porthos muttered.

"So do we split up or stick together?" d'Artagnan asked, voicing the dilemma on everybody's mind.

Athos ruminated on the question for a few moments before coming to a decision. "We split up. Half an hour. If we don't find him within that time, we come back and regroup here."

Each of them retrieved a torch from the walls and used the lantern to ignite a flame.

"This is a dangerous criminal. No risks." Athos looked at each of his comrades in turn. "I am leaving this lantern here, it's our mark. Don't venture too far and get lost."

They all nodded in understanding before heading off to separate corridors.

The flame from the torch was only a little better than the lantern. Porthos took each step cautiously, pistol raised and ears picking up every little sound that did not come from him. At times like this, he was almost grateful for his years spent in the Court of Miracles. Almost.

Despite being on alert, he did not come across any sign of their target. He was about to turn back and retrace his steps when he thought he heard a shuffle.

The Musketeer stilled and listened very carefully. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard another sound. This time he was certain.

He advanced silently until the narrow corridor gave way to a wider chamber. Porthos stepped inside and immediately spotted a silhouette. The dark frame did not move, apparently not noticing his arrival and so he concluded that the man must be staring at the dead end in front of him.

He clicked his pistol and pointed it at the shadow. "Don't move."

The shadow jumped and appeared to twist around. Porthos took another step forward and the light from his torch revealed that it was indeed the man they were after.

He looked like a cornered animal, eyes desperately darting around, searching for a potential escape. He had his hands behind him, blocking them from Porthos' view.

"Hands in front where I can see them."

The man remained unmoving.

"I said hands where I can see them," Porthos snapped.

This time, the man appeared to squirm although he was yet to obey the command thrown at him.

"Hands up or I'll shoot!"

In a flurry of motion, the man hurled an object at Porthos. The Musketeer immediately pulled the trigger and the ball hit its victim on the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Porthos looked down at the ball rolling in his direction and saw smoke rising out of it. He swore, kicking the incendiary towards the far wall and made to run back. But it was too late. He had barely taken a step backwards when there was an explosion and he was knocked off his feet.

His breath was knocked out and he could hear crashes and rumbles all around him. Pebbles rained all over his body and the air was soon clogged with dust.

Eventually, everything quietened. Porthos carefully got to his feet, feeling for any injury. His back sent spikes of pain and one wrist seemed to be sprained. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be broken.

His mouth was gritty with all the dust and no amount of coughing seemed to help with that.

As the dust cleared a little, he found his torch lying a few feet to his side, still burning through some miracle.

Picking it up, he took in his surroundings. Half of the ceiling had crumbled and blocked the entrance through which he had accessed the chamber.

He tried to dislodge the boulders, pushing and pulling with all his might but none of the debris so much as budged.

So that particular route was closed for him. Porthos huffed as he stepped away from the debris and wandered to his left. The side wall appeared relatively unharmed. Trudging forward, his chest flooded with relief as his gaze fell upon a door.

He pushed on the iron frame. No movement. He pushed harder. Still nothing. Since he did not find a bolt or lock from his end, it must be latched from the opposite side.

Frustrated, Porthos cursed his luck and kicked a nearby stone.

It landed with a splash.

The Musketeer frowned. He stepped forward and found the stone sploshing on a little puddle.

A rapidly growing puddle. The water appeared to be steadily moving, as it would in a stream. His confusion growing, Porthos followed the muddy trail before pulling up short at the chilling sight in front of him.

Apparently, the bomb which he had kicked away had exploded a massive opening on the far wall. Water cascaded from the gaping hole at a torrential rate. Porthos abruptly remembered how close to the Seine they happened to be while chasing this criminal and the realisation that there was no way this flow of water was about to stop anytime soon settled like a lead weight in his gut.

This was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Porthos roamed wildly around the closed space, searching for another exit but failing to locate any.

He started when he thought he heard his name being called out. Porthos rushed to the crumbled wall, straining his ears and praying to be able to listen to the sound again.

He heard it definitely this time. "Porthos?"

"Here!" Porthos yelled as loud as his lungs would allow him. "I'm here!"

"Porthos!"

Footsteps hurried in his direction. The voice was much closer this time. He realised that it belonged to Aramis. "Porthos?"

"In here! I'm trapped. Can't move these boulders," he answered, punching on a rock in frustration. And fear.

"Okay, okay stay put, I'll get the others and we'll get you out," Aramis assured him.

"No, no, Aramis wait. This space, it's filling up with water! I'm about to get drowned in no time."

A beat.

"Well, shit," came the reply from the other side.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed.

"Well how much time do you have?"

Porthos looked back at the gushing water and the rapidly approaching stream. It was not exactly a spacious chamber and the ceiling was quite low.

"Half an hour?" he said. "Maybe less?"

Aramis swore colourfully. Porthos could well imagine the man carding his fingers through his wild mess of a hair at this very moment.

"Listen," Porthos urged. "There is another gate to my left but I can't get it to open 'cause it's probably locked from the outside. If you can figure out how to get there..."

_I might stand a chance._

_I could survive._

_Please hurry up._

"We'll get you out," Aramis promised. "Just hold on."

The footsteps raced away and Porthos was once again left on his own. He took several deep breaths. Feeling reasonably calmed after reminding himself that help was on its way, he stepped back from the debris.

Only to realise his ankles were submerged in water now.

Porthos frowned. The water was rising faster than he had estimated. He rushed forward to check on the cascade.

He could swear that the breach appeared wider than it was five minutes ago. A chill ran down his spine as he realised the terrible implications.

The Musketeer checked and re-checked his surroundings for a potential escape. Again and again he was disappointed. None of his thorough searches yielded the result he desperately he wished for. The debris wouldn't move, the door refused to give. Porthos could remember feeling this helpless only once in his life; when he had returned to his tiny shack and found his Maman unmoving, unresponsive. He had cried then, he cried now.

The water rose and rose and rose.

He decided to save his stamina. He waded through the knee-deep water to reach the iron door and waited beside it, heart thumping in his chest.

Aramis was coming. His friend would unlatch whatever was holding back this bloody door and then he would be out. Simple. Porthos refused to play out the worst-case scenarios in his head.

_If only the door had been bolted from this side._

Porthos was confident he could have picked it open without a fuss.

The water was waist deep when he decided to shed some of his heavy layers. He started with his weapon belt. He hated losing his pistols and schiavona but survival was the priority now. Porthos could do this. He was a survivor. He could survive this too. He just needed to buy Aramis some time.

His jacket proved to be a tricky issue, thanks to the flaming torch still in his hand. Nevertheless, he managed to slip out of it.

His arm ached as he held up the torch above his shoulders to avoid it from getting quenched by the water that was up to his chest by now.

Only when the water rose to his neck was he forced to let go of the torch. The flames hit the liquid surface and fizzled out, plunging the Musketeer into complete darkness.

His arms now freed, he was able to swim and keep his head above the rapidly rising levels.

The water rose and rose and rose.

He was soaked down to his bones. He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering.

His racing heart missed a beat when he felt something solid touch his head. Porthos raised an arm and found his fingers brushing against cold stone.

Still, the water rose and rose and rose.

It wasn't long before he was forced to swallow some of the water. He tried to tilt his head back to keep his nose free but the movement proved difficult in such a cramped space.

He managed to inhale a deep gasp of air just before the dark water consumed him completely. He shut his eyes. He thrashed. His lungs burned, begging for air. He screamed but no sound came out.

This was it. This was how it ended for him.

Porthos welcomed the sweet nothing that enveloped him.

~TM~TM~TM~TM~

Porthos woke to darkness and a repeating, painful pressure on his ribcage. He thrashed his arms at the offending weight on his chest but the action was soon aborted in favour of him pushing up to throw up what tasted like a stream of water.

The pressure on his chest vanished. A pair of hands settled on his shoulders. Porthos did not mind that. He found it grounding. Especially when his entire frame shook with vicious coughs punching out of his lungs.

"Easy, easy," a voice soothed. _Aramis_ , his mind supplied.

"The hell happened?" Porthos managed to croak out after some time.

"You took a swim," Aramis said, the gentleness in his tone belying the blithe words.

Porthos blinked in confusion before the memories crashed into him.

"The next time a bastard decides to get lost in one of these catacombs, we let him," he growled.

"Indeed." Porthos almost jumped at the new voice. Looking up, he saw Athos standing solemnly over him, lantern in hand. D'Artagnan peered at him from behind the lieutenant's shoulder, concern marking his youthful features. Even in the dim light, the larger Musketeer could see that all three of his brothers were dripping wet.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked. "Does it hurt anywhere? Your chest? Your throat?"

"Nah, I am just cold," Porthos replied. "Feels like I have an awful lot of that water still inside me, though."

Aramis nodded. "That is to be expected. You were in there for quite a while. I'm sorry it took us so long."

Porthos shook his head. "Not your fault. If anything, I should be grateful you found me in the nick of time."

"Always," the marksman said, squeezing his shoulder. Porthos winced as pain spiked through his muscles.

Aramis frowned. "I thought you said there were no other injuries?"

"Yeah, well, got thrown back by the explosion," Porthos shrugged. "Did you hear it?"

"We did," Athos confirmed. "D'Artagnan and I ran into Aramis and he apprised us of your situation."

"Well, short story? I found our lost friend. Long story? Will tell you once we're out of this bloody place," Porthos said as he made to get up. Aramis immediately leaned forward to lend his support.

"Would you like to wear your jacket?" d'Artagnan suddenly piped up. "It's soaking wet but so are you-"

"Wait, you found my jacket?" Porthos was amazed.

D'Artagnan proudly held up the tunic. "We found your schiavona too," the Gascon added. "But your pistols were nowhere to be found."

"Guess you can't have everything," Porthos muttered as d'Artagnan handed him his jacket and sword.

He was grateful for what had been returned to him. He was grateful to have lived to fight another day. And of course he was grateful for the brothers who always came back for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, an intellectual: But CPR wasn't invented until 1956!  
> Me, a doofus who only cares about plot convenience: *surprised pikachu face*
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	5. Day 5: On the Run (Aramis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Put your sword down," he barked._
> 
> _Aramis weighed his options. The distance was fair enough and these men had proven to be poor shots in addition to being terrible with a blade. The only thing that kept him from taking his chances was the sobbing baby in his arm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This monster grew so long that I had to split it into two parts. On the bright side, I now have two prompt fills at the cost of one :D
> 
> WARNINGS: Some mentions of blood though nothing too graphic.

Dry leaves crunched under his feet as he stumbled between the trees. He had long since lost track of the distance he had covered or the time that was lost. But now, surrounded by the forest and silence and with no visible signs of any threat, Aramis gave in to his exhaustion.

The Musketeer leaned against a trunk to catch his breath. He grimaced as his side continued to feel like it was on fire. Blood oozed sluggishly from where a blade had torn his skin. He tightened his hold on the precious weight in his arms even as he shook his head against a wave of nausea.

Aramis slowly slid down along the length of the trunk until he was slumped awkwardly against it.

The ambush had come out of nowhere.

What had been a peaceful picnic party among the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting quickly descended into blood and chaos. Amidst the explosions and falling bodies, Aramis only had one thought crossing his mind.

He had to get his son away from this mess.

So, he took the only course of action he could think of. He grabbed the baby from his swaddles on the ground and ran.

That was...an hour ago? Two hours? Less than an hour? He looked up towards the sky but failed to infer anything useful as the thick canopy shielded his view of the sun.

Aramis sighed. He did not even remember when the open grounds had given away to trees and bushes. At that time, he could only think of getting his son as far away as possible from the threats surrounding him.

Feeling an insistent tug against his neck, Aramis glanced down to find a chubby hand fisted around his crucifix. For a moment, he was alarmed by the large splotches of red staining the tiny shirt but he quickly reasoned that the child would not be this unbothered if all that blood was indeed his own. Nevertheless, Aramis allowed himself a relieved sigh only after a thorough inspection of the little body had revealed no injury.

Tiny fingers fumbled with the jewel, releasing the pendant and then reaching back for it, all the while an incessant stream of gibberish nonsense drifted up to him. The last time Aramis had an opportunity to hold his son, Louis had barely spanned his chest. He was growing up so fast. Too fast if you asked Aramis.

Blue eyes met brown and Aramis failed to check the smile that formed on his lips when the cherubic face below him broke into a toothless grin.

Oh, how he had longed to share a moment like this with his boy. Free of any prying eyes and the fear of the noose. Fate always seemed to carry a sardonic sense of humour when it came to granting his wishes.

Louis had let go of the crucifix for good now. Cooing happily, he extended an arm, fingers just out of reach from the stubble on his father's chin. His smile widening, Aramis lifted the arm supporting the child's head, only to abort the movement with a hiss as he was painfully reminded of the gaping wound on his torso.

The Musketeer ground his teeth against the mounting levels of agony from his side. He felt light-headed and swallowed down the rising bile in his throat.

Through the haze of pain, Aramis thought he heard the snort of an animal. He stilled, listening intently for any unusual noise.

He swore when he caught the sound of beating hooves. It was loud and it was near. He cursed himself for not having sensed the danger earlier.

The Musketeer's frantic gaze flitted around his surroundings until it settled on some thick bushes in the distance. He scrambled to his feet and staggered towards the shrubbery. Aramis crouched inside the thickets, taking great care to keep Louis' face pressed on his chest, preventing the stiff leaves from poking his delicate eyes. His injured side did not appreciate the jolting movements and he had to bite on his tongue to hold back an anguished scream. The baby whimpered and squirmed in discomfort. Aramis tried to shush him with his gentle rocking.

To his dismay, the hoofbeats only grew louder. In fact, Aramis could hear voices. A lot of voices.

"Can't believe that Musketeer scum escaped with the baby from right under our noses!"

"Don't look at me! I was busy with creating the distractions. Paul and Remy, they were supposed to go after the boy!"

"And you were supposed to take care of the Musketeers as part of your _distractions."_

"You are just trying to shift the blame on me!"

At least three men. With a debilitating wound and a babe in arms, those were not promising odds.

Louis, thankfully, remained quiet. The arguing voices grew louder and soon, several men on horseback came into his view. Aramis counted five of them.

The marksman watched as the men dismounted, their backs turned on him. Carefully, very carefully he reached behind him and silently extricated his _main gauche_. The bickering continued even as the men wandered about, taking a look at their surroundings.

"This is turning into a wild goose chase, what if he took off in a whole other direction?" one of them wondered aloud as he appeared to casually advance towards the marksman's hiding place. The man did not appear to be looking directly at the shrubbery though the Musketeer could not be sure from his position.

Aramis held his breath as a pair of boots stopped right in front of him. He tightened the grip on his blade.

"I think we have lost him for good." The words were spoken right above him. "We should turn back."

Aramis' instincts screamed at him. He had been discovered. The whole conversation was a planned distraction, a ploy to make him relax his guard.

Within seconds, he heard the swish of steel cutting air and raised his _main gauche_ just in time to parry the blade aimed at his head.

Emerging from the bushes with a snarl, he plunged his dagger into the neck of his attacker and left it there. The man gurgled and went down with a shocked expression on his face.

Shouts and curses filled the air. Aramis withdrew his rapier as the men around him broke into a flurry of activity.

Louis wailed.

Two men lunged at him at once. Aramis evaded the blade of one and deflected the attack of the other. What the Musketeer lacked in numbers, he made up for it in skill. Spotting an opening, he quickly slashed his blade across the thigh of one of his opponents. The man stumbled and dropped to the ground, writhing in pain as blood spurted out of his wound. The blade had sliced through a major artery, the injury would be fatal.

Aramis hissed as his other attacker took that as an opportunity to score a cut across his arm. He kicked the man before running him through with his sword.

A shot rang out in the air and Aramis felt the ball graze past the top of his shoulder, tearing a good chunk of flesh in the process.

He howled, almost losing his grip on Louis and barely managing to maintain his footing. He looked up to find only two of the men left standing. One of them held a smoking pistol, his features twisted into a mix of fear and surprise, while the other pulled out his own pistol and pointed it at Aramis.

"Put your sword down," he barked.

Aramis weighed his options. The distance was fair enough and these men had proven to be poor shots in addition to being terrible with a blade. The only thing that kept him from taking his chances was the sobbing baby in his arm. It tugged at his heartstrings that he could not immediately comfort his son.

"I said put it down! Now! Or I'll shoot the baby!"

Aramis growled before reluctantly dropping his sword.

The man smirked. "Good. Now stay there and hand over the boy to my friend," he added before gesturinging at his companion to retrieve the prince. "You move a hair, I pull the trigger."

The other man shot his friend a hesitant glance before striding determinedly towards the Musketeer. He stopped before Aramis and eyed him warily.

"Do it. Hand him over," his companion yelled from behind.

The man reached forward to grab the prince.

A fatal mistake on his part.

Aramis surged forward and head-butted the thug on his nose. There was the satisfying crunch of shattering bones followed by an anguished scream. The Musketeer grabbed his cowering adversary and manhandled him in front of himself just as a pistol fired and the ball found its target in the human shield.

Figuring out that discretion was now the better part of valour, the other man dropped his spent pistol and made a dash for the nearest horse. In one swift motion, Aramis whipped out his own pistol and fired at the retreating figure. Unlike his opponents, he did not miss. The man went down with a yelp and did not move again.

Louis' high pitched wails were now reduced to pitiful mewls. Aramis blinked.

 _Get to one of the horses,_ a voice inside his head ordered him.

He took a single step forward.

Only to end up abruptly slouching on the grass.

The marksman groaned as the various wounds inflicted on him angrily reminded him of their existence. The deep gash above his waist burned with a vengeance, his shoulder felt wet, his injured arm throbbed with every heartbeat. He cradled Louis close to his chest even as he struggled to control his harsh breathing.

With the adrenaline wearing off, his exhaustion and blood loss were finally catching up on him. Aramis opened his eyes to find himself lying on his uninjured side, his son snuggled contently against his shoulder. When had he closed his eyes?

The voice inside his head screamed at him. He needed to get up. He needed to get them to safety.

His body begged to differ. His limbs refused to cooperate. His head swam. Dark spots scattered all over his vision. He shivered. He shouldn't be shivering, it was not that time of the year.

He was bleeding out. He was dying.

Aramis could feel the life seeping out of him.

He had failed. He had failed in his promise to Anne.

"I'm sorry," Aramis choked. Louis, oblivious to the direness of his situation, reached out a hand and giggled when his fingers finally caressed over the stubbled cheek. Aramis scrunched his eyes shut as a single tear streaked down his nose. The dark spots were gaining in prominence. "I'm so sorry, _mi hijo._ I failed in my duty, I failed to protect you."

He summoned the last remaining shred of his strength to plant an affectionate kiss on Louis' head before letting the darkness overwhelm him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: To be continued in the Day 15 Alt prompt "Stitches"
> 
> Review please!


	6. "Get it Out" (Aramis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aramis finally turned to face him. Now that he could observe closely, Athos kicked himself for not noticing the wet shine on his brother's eyes earlier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *yeets this at the world with barely any editing* Extremely dialogue-heavy. Really, not much happens here.
> 
> Set immediately after Season 2 Episode 1, "Keep your Friends Closer", when Athos and Aramis discover the real reason behind Adele's disappearance.
> 
> WARNINGS: Mentions of Minor Canon Character Death

Athos rapped sharply on the wooden frame. "Aramis?"

No answer. He tried again. "Aramis? Are you there?"

Still no answer. Athos nudged the door and it creaked open a fraction. "I'm coming in," he declared, before pushing the door wide open.

The room was dimly lit, save for the single candle on the nightstand. Aramis sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders sagged and hands cradling an intricately patterned pistol. The light and shade contrasted starkly on his face, accentuating his sharp cheekbones and jaw. The marksman's expression, however, remained unreadable.

"Aramis?"

His friend did not acknowledge his presence.

Athos stepped inside and closed the door behind him, before heading towards the bed and settling down beside his brother _._

The silence hung heavily between them. Aramis simply stared at the weapon he held, fingers running tenderly over the polished metal. Never quite the conversationalist, (not unless he was copiously drunk anyway) Athos patiently waited for Aramis to break the silence, content to simply provide his quiet company until then.

He was not disappointed.

"The day we met d'Artagnan, do you remember that day?"

The words were spoken softly. Of all the things Athos expected his brother to say, this was not among them.

"How can I possibly forget?" Despite his bemusement and the somber atmosphere, the Musketeer could not help the faint upturn of his lips. Indeed, how could any of them forget the day the hot-headed Gascon charged into the Garrison, screaming bloody murder and demanding a deadly duel with Athos. All of that was, of course, before Athos was actually arrested and thrown in the Chatelet, charged with murder and highway robbery.

"We had just arrived at the Garrison," Aramis continued, "after investigating Cornet's disappearance, remember?"

"I do," Athos answered, still not sure where this was going.

"The day Treville sent us off to investigate, you and Porthos found me hanging outside Adele's window, remember?"

Ah, so this was indeed about Adele, just as Athos had suspected. He had known that Aramis would be beating himself up after the unexpected revelation they came across this evening. The former Comte was intimately familiar with the crushing weight of guilt and the darkness that came with it.

"You said the Cardinal was early," Athos replied.

"He was," Aramis said, a faint trembling marking his words. "In my hurry, I...I left this pistol behind in Adele's apartment."

Well, that was news to Athos.

"Adele managed to hide it just as the Cardinal arrived," Aramis went on, the trembling in his voice gaining prominence with each word. "The next time I went to visit her, the maid returned my pistol. She also informed me that...that Adele had gone to the Cardinal's country estate."

A lie. She had been whisked away, only to be murdered.

Suddenly, it clicked on Athos. "So you think that-"

"What's there to think?" Aramis cut in. "The picture is clear. Richelieu found this gun. How else would he know?"

Aramis finally turned to face him. Now that he could observe closely, Athos kicked himself for not noticing the wet shine on his brother's eyes earlier.

"I put her in danger, Athos. And then...and then I gave up too easily. Her departure...it never sat right with me. I should have listened to my instincts, Athos...all that...all that time I thought she was-"

"Aramis-"

"I thought she was happy! I really thought she was living her best life and...and I wished her well but-"

His breathing hitched. Athos was alarmed by the white knuckles that clutched on the pistol like a lifeline.

"He is punishing me even beyond the grave. He knew about Adele, what else did he know? What if... what if he knew about...about..."

Aramis trailed off, terrified to even voice the thought.

Athos decided he's had enough.

He reached forward and took the pistol from his friend's hands. Aramis, to his surprise, gave it up quite easily. Placing the weapon on the bedstand, Athos proceeded to pull a visibly shaking Aramis into a tight embrace.

It started with quiet sobs. Athos did not comment on the rapidly dampening spot on his shirt where he cradled Aramis' head. He rubbed gentle circles on the marksman's shaking frame when soft whimpers began to escape his lips.

"That's it," Athos' soothing voice encouraged. "Get it out, brother."

With a pained, harsh scream, muffled by his friend's shirt, Aramis let go of the final cord of restraint on his emotions. It was like a dam had been broken. Unbidden, the memories of another brother, from another lifetime, one whom he used to hold and encourage just like this, flashed before his eyes. Athos forced those images out of his mind. Now was not the time.

Eventually, the wracking sobs subsided into dry heaves and muted sniffles.

"I got snot all over your shirt. I think it's ruined now," Aramis mumbled without really making an effort to mitigate the damage by lifting his face from where it was pressed against the fabric.

Athos snorted. "I can think of worse things to have befallen on my shirt."

"Like that time when d'Artagnan decided to smear your shirt with honey as a prank?"

"Precisely."

A wet chuckle escaped from the marksman's lips. Aramis finally made to get up from his comfortable human pillow. Releasing his hold on his friend, Athos rose to his feet and proceeded towards the table.

He felt the other man's eyes on his back as he filled a glass with water.

"Drink it. All of it," the swordsman said after returning to his friend's side. Aramis accepted the glass and drained its contents without complain.

"What are you doing?" the sharpshooter asked as he watched his brother take off his boots.

"Getting settled for the night," Athos answered blandly.

"In my quarters?"

"Hmm." He shed his jacket and blew out the candle before nudging Aramis to make room for him on the bed. Aramis sighed, resigned to his fate, as he lied down and shifted further back until he was facing the wall.

Athos snaked an arm around his brother's trunk while his other hand rested on the mess of Aramis' hair.

"Do you...do you think she will ever forgive me...for abandoning her?" Aramis whispered into the darkness after a while.

"She loved you. And you loved her. The only person who needs forgiveness here is the Cardinal," Athos said, even though he knew his words will be of little assurance to the torment in Aramis' heart.

"May his soul burn in hell."

"Amen, brother," Athos replied, gently carding his fingers through the brown curls. "Now sleep, we still have our jobs waiting for us in the morning."

Aramis sighed before giving in to his brother's soothing ministrations. "Thanks," he mumbled. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

 _When you saved me from my own darkness,_ Athos wanted to say. Instead he just snuggled him closer until they both fell asleep, comfortable in each other's warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive on feedbacks!


	7. Day 7: Support/Carrying (Porthos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Athos bent down to do as the medic said. Porthos groaned when he was made to sit up but the other Musketeers' alarms were not raised until their brother was howling and thrashing when supported on his feet._
> 
> _"Bloody hell," Athos cursed as a wayward fist collided with his cheek._
> 
> _"Put him down! Something's wrong!" Aramis yelled._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, alright, calm down everybody. I _know_ I said this chapter was going to be a continuation from the Day 5 prompt. Well...uh... there's been a change of plans and that follow up will happen on Day 15. It's final this time, I swear. Please bear with me.
> 
> WARNINGS: Torture.

Aramis huffed as he ducked a clumsy swing of his opponent's sword. In a single, swift motion, he grabbed the sword arm of his adversary and drove his own blade into the other man's gut.

A quick scan of his surroundings revealed that to be the last of his enemies.

His ears perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. The Musketeer whipped out his gun and aimed it at the mouth of the corridor before relaxing in his stance when a familiar figure emerged from the corner.

"All taken care of?" Athos asked as he came up to him and took in the fallen bodies.

Aramis smirked, remorseless. "Thoroughly. Did you find out where he is?"

The swordsman pushed a set of keys into Aramis' hand. "Third door up to the left," he said. "Go. I'll keep watch in case there are any more of these men."

Aramis did not need to be told twice. He sprinted off in the direction given by Athos. It wasn't long before he found the door he was looking for.

The marksman was grateful when the lock clicked open after his fourth attempt of choosing the right key from the bunch. He pushed open the iron frame and had to stifle a horrified gasp at the sight that greeted him inside the cell.

Porthos lay on the cold stone floor, prone and unmoving. The Musketeer had been divested of his jacket and trousers and left only in a loose shirt and braies. Rusty smudges of blood covered the white fabric in more places than he could count.

Aramis was at his friend's side in two strides. He kneeled beside the unresponsive body, eyes taking in the damage inflicted on it.

"Porthos?" Heart in his throat, Aramis pressed two fingers to the side of brother's neck and heaved a sigh of relief on detecting a steady pulse. The medic rolled up the bloodied shirt and winced on seeing the map of barely congealed lacerations and dark bruises smattered all over the other man's back.

"Porthos?" Aramis tried again, carefully nudging the injured man's head to the side. The action was met with a pained groan.

"Porthos, are you awake? I'm about to turn you on your side, you need to tell me where it hurts," Aramis rattled off as he gently ran his fingers through his friend's soiled curls. Porthos grunted as the marksman carefully rolled him on his side.

As suspected, Porthos looked no better from the front than he did from behind. His lips were puffy and crusted with dried blood. One eye was swollen shut while also sporting a bleeding cut right above the eyebrow. Blood oozed sluggishly from what Aramis concluded was a broken nose. His chest and belly, just like his back, were covered in cuts and welts.

Aramis almost wished for Athos to come announcing that there were more of those men in the building. He would make them wish they were never born.

Porthos was watching him with a glaze over his eyes, or rather his good eye. Aramis doubted the man was even aware of his presence.

"Athos!"

The quick pounding of boots heralded the arrival of their leader in answer to the marksman's shout. Aramis watched as the blue eyes widened in alarm for a fraction of a second before returning to their carefully maintained neutral state.

"Is he...?" Athos asked as he approached the duo, eyes fixed on Porthos.

"Breathing, though in no state to be walking anywhere. I need your help to get him on his feet and support him out of here. Is the coast clear?"

"As clear as it can be."

Aramis turned back to Porthos. "Porthos? Porthos can you understand me? I know it'll be painful but we'll need to get you up. Can you manage it?"

Aramis was not really expecting an answer so he was surprised when Porthos responded with a garbled "can't wa'k, can't 'scape."

The other two Musketeers exchanged a confused glance over the barely conscious man.

"We're here now, brother," Athos reassured. "Aramis and I, we're here for you and we'll get you out."

"Can't 'scape...can't ge' ou'," Porthos repeated, head rolling backwards.

"He's running a fever. Take his left, I'll take the right," Aramis instructed.

Athos bent down to do as the medic said. Porthos groaned when he was made to sit up but the other Musketeers' alarms were not raised until their brother was howling and thrashing when supported on his feet.

"Bloody hell," Athos cursed as a wayward fist collided with his cheek.

"Put him down! Something's wrong!" Aramis yelled. The pair hastened to settle the anguished Musketeer on his haunches, Athos supporting him from behind while Aramis bent down to inspect his feet.

"Those bastards!" the medic fumed as he took in the ghastly picture that was Porthos' feet.

There was not a speck left on his soles that was not marked by ugly gashes and welts. It was hard to tell if they were inflicted by a switch or a lash. Maybe both.

"Bastinado," Athos surmised, barely able to check the cold fury from his voice.

"We'll need to carry him," Aramis decided. He saw the swordsman's lips curling into a grimace. Aramis couldn't blame him. Even between the two of them, carrying Porthos' muscular bulk was going to be a daunting task.

Athos took hold of the armpits while Aramis grabbed the legs. Together, they managed to lift the larger Musketeer and haul him out of the cell.

Porthos' head lolled bonelessly as they carried him through the building. Despite what he had wished for earlier in his revenge fantasies, Aramis really did not hope to come across any other thug right now.

Thankfully, they made it out of the building without any hostile encounters. The Musketeers truly appeared to have made a clinical job of routing out their adversaries.

They tramped on a little further until they reached a small grove where their horses had been tethered, hidden from plain view.

The pair gently laid Porthos on the grass. The man gasped as his abused back caused him agony from being pressed against the hard ground. Athos darted to his horse to retrieve a bedroll while Aramis set about to turn Porthos on his side and free him of his shirt.

Porthos, for his part, mumbled incoherently while making weak attempts to shrug off the prodding hands. It broke Aramis' heart to see his fierce, strong brother rendered so helpless by his tormentors. The marksman stomped down on another wave of fury to focus on the task at hand.

Athos arrived with the soft bedrolls and a blanket. He arranged them on the grass and then helped Aramis to settle Porthos on his side on the makeshift bed.

Porthos' struggling increased. An arm shot out and latched on to Aramis' throat with an agility that surprised the other Musketeers. His open, unseeing eye was angry and defiant as he tightened his fingers on the delicate flesh and a low growl emitted from his throat.

His weakened state meant that Aramis was easily able to release himself from the larger Musketeer's grip. He leaned down, bringing his face into the other man's direct line of sight and tenderly cupped a bruised cheek. "Porthos? Porthos, it's me, Aramis. You're safe now, you have no need to fear anything."

Porthos flinched away from the gentle touch. Aramis sighed in dismay.

"We can't linger here, it's too dangerous," Athos said.

Aramis shook his head. "Porthos is in no fit state to ride."

"We're on the outskirts of a village. I'll procure a cart for us. You tend to him in the meantime."

That sounded like a sensible plan. Aramis nodded his agreement.

Athos left just as Aramis prepared a fire and set a pan filled with the water from his flask over it. He rummaged through his medkit to retrieve his needle, threads and fresh bandages as he waited for the water to heat.

Porthos was still muttering gibberish in the throes of his fever and delirium when Aramis returned to his side. At least he had stopped in his thrashings, Aramis gratefully noted.

The medic soaked a piece of bandage in the warm water and dabbed it on one of the numerous gashes marring his skin. He worked methodically, focusing on the infected wounds first. Having softened the necrotic area, he pricked it with the needle and drained the oozing pus. Aramis repeated the procedure until all the infected cuts, including the ones on his soles, were taken care of. He simply washed the few wounds that remained uninfected.

Aramis could hardly recall a time when Porthos did not violently react to a needle poking his skin, not unless he had been knocked out first. This time, the injured man did barely more than whimper and flinch away while Aramis sewed through the particularly large and bleeding lacerations. The marksman found it to be both a blessing and a cause for concern.

He was almost done bandaging the wounds when Athos returned, driving a cart attached to Roger.

"How does he fare?" he asked, dismounting.

"Not good," Aramis reported. "I have cleaned and dressed the wounds for now but right now, I'm worried about the fever."

"We should reach Paris by nightfall," Athos said as he helped Aramis carry Porthos to the cart.

They tacked Aramis' horse to the cart before setting off to their destination, Athos taking the driver's seat while Aramis sat inside, watching over a barely conscious Porthos.

"Just hold on, brother," Aramis whispered as he took his friend's hand in his and gave it a tight squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued on the Day 22 prompt, "Poisoned".
> 
> Review please!


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